Page 1 of A Sporting Affair (The Corinthians #1)

June 1813

Devonshire

The open window invited entry, a siren-song for his intentions. Moonlight cast a midnight glow on the curtains hanging heavy in the still air. Not so much as a candle shone, the house dark, the residents abed.

With the back of his hand, Rafe wiped a bead of sweat from his brow.

Perfect . A grin tugged at the corners of his lips. He held the element of surprise. To see her expression would be worth the effort.

Inhaling the scent of evening’s dew, he drew in courage to enact his plan.

Eyes darting from the window casement to the adjacent garden wall and back, he shrugged off his top three layers: caped greatcoat, frockcoat, then waistcoat. Tossing each onto the wall’s capstone was the work of a moment, but he paused five breaths longer to prepare for the climb.

Rafe gained purchase of the rough-hewn stone, one boot tip nestled in a toehold, fingertips perched over jagged fissures. Spying his next quarry, he reached up to clasp a jutting stone edge, then shimmied his boot to propel himself closer to his goal.

After heaving a grunt and rubbing his forehead against his shirtsleeve, he renewed his grin at the grand scheme. This surprise would have tongues wagging for at least a week. His best scheme yet.

Grasping the smooth stone at the top of the wall, he pulled himself up to meet his awaiting coats. Secure on the wall cap, Rafe beheld his destination—the window. Whoever had thought to build a garden wall within reach of the casement window had forever won Rafe’s favor; mischief made easy.

He took advantage of the silent night to listen for hints of life beyond the window. All remained still.

With an impatient swipe to his boots, he knocked away dust, grabbed his coats, then stood. In five strides atop the wall, he reached the open window. One article at a time, he flung his coats over the windowsill, hearing the satisfying swish of them landing on the rug within. Clasping the casement frame with both hands, he used two footholds on the house’s stone facade to hoist himself up and hook a leg over the sill.

Almost there. Almost inside.

Wearing little more than buckskins, boots, shirt, and a victorious smile, he angled into the bedchamber and arched his foot, toes reaching for the familiar canework seat of the settee that would grant him smooth and silent entry.

He arched. He stretched. He tapped.

Where was it…

As it dawned that there was no settee beneath the window, Rafe slipped over the sill.

With a strangled cry, he crashed into the room with a rolling tumble. Knocking into a washstand with the force of his weight, he grunted, his shoulder smarting at the contact. To his dismay, a water pitcher toppled off the stand. He shrieked as it narrowly missed him on its collision course to the floor, dousing the side of the four-poster bed along the way.

So much for the element of surprise. Rafe groaned.

To stand, he clasped the saber leg of a desk, which turned out not to be a desk. Rafe squeezed his eyes closed as whatever he had grabbed crashed against the wall with an unholy crack .

Lunging to his feet, he had exactly five seconds to consider the stomp of footsteps along the corridor outside the bedchamber before a scream rent the air.

His heart palpitating, palms perspiring, and body coiling, he jerked his attention to the bed. A sliver of moonlight slanted across the figure of a young woman. Bedlinen clutched to her chest, she stared back at him.

Ignoring the pounding against the bedchamber door, he stuttered, “Wh-who the devil are you?”